When the lights in the audience came on, Qiu Ya still sat in her seat, unmoving.
The people around her were dazed for a long time.
No one stood up.
Time passed slowly.
Some were stretching, some were scrolling through their phones, and some were still shipping the moment when the Snow Girl suddenly princess-carried the Gemstone Princess—there were even people gesturing to their companions, reenacting which moment gave them the most chills.
Eventually, sound surged in from all directions, chaotic and messy—completely different from the unified waves during the performance.
Like the scattered shells of all sizes left on the beach after the tide receded.
Qiu Ya sat in the audience, not moving for a long time.
She just sat there, staring at the stage.
The curtain had already closed.
The crimson velvet hung there, motionless.
But she wasn’t looking at the curtain—she was looking at the person who had disappeared behind it.
‘As expected of her.’
The words were so soft that only she could hear them.
After she said them, the corner of her mouth twitched—not a smile.
It was like an adult hearing that their child had done something outrageous, saying “How could you?” while understanding that “It really is something she’d do.”
In the end, she said nothing more, just let out a sigh.
She lowered her head and scrolled through her phone.
The screen displayed her chat history with the organizer.
Scrolling up, then further up—back to a message from three days ago: “The confrontation format has been confirmed. Both parties have agreed.”
Back then, she had been thinking about how to arrange the flow, how to control the pacing, how to make the “confrontation” look intense without losing dignity.
She had even specifically talked to Chuxue once, asking if she was confident.
Chuxue didn’t answer right away.
She just held her black tea, smiling at Qiu Ya with narrowed eyes.
The steam from that cup of tea drifted between them for a while before Chuxue finally spoke: “It depends on Alice.”
“Depends on how Alice responds”?
No.
—It was “depends on what Alice decides.”
She lifted her head and looked at the audience.
The crowd was still filing out, but one section was still lit up—the three little ones sat there, unmoving.
The black-haired one was filming the stage with her phone, but after a long time, she realized the shot was blurry and let out a frustrated “Ah.”
The brown-haired one was flipping through a video she’d recorded, stopping at a certain clip, holding the phone up to her companion.
The two of them watched it together, heads close, then rewound and watched it again.
The blond one sat at the very edge, still holding a lightstick—it had already gone dark, but she hadn’t put it down.
She just held it there, as if she’d forgotten.
Qiu Ya looked at them, her eyes curving slightly.
But her thoughts still lingered on the stage.
‘Alice.’
From a 500-person underground live, to an 800-person formal venue, a 3000-person large hall, then 8000, 10,000, 12,000, 15,000, 18,000, 20,000, and now 30,000 today… in just a few months.
But no one had ever doubted her limits.
As if she had descended from the heavens, born to stand on any stage—there had never been a single moment of doubt about her.
That pink-haired girl, on someone else’s stage, dancing to someone else’s song, yet making everyone watch her.
Even in a collaborative performance, even though Chuxue’s ability would never let anyone dismiss her as mere “backup”—the audience’s eyes still drifted toward Alice.
It wasn’t that Chuxue wasn’t good enough—it was that that person was just too…
Qiu Ya searched her mind for the right word but couldn’t find it.
Not “dazzling”—that wasn’t enough.
Not “powerful”—still not quite right.
It was something more direct, more extraordinary—like gravity.
You didn’t have to understand it, admit it, or even perceive it.
But it was there, pulling you in that direction.
Qiu Ya’s smile gradually faded.
Because she thought of someone else—another one.
Earlier, more distant:
‘Witch.’
She whispered it to herself—like she was speaking to a blurred figure in her memory, one that time had nearly washed away.
‘Come to think of it, the title “Witch” used to be common in the idol industry.’
‘Moonlight Witch, Deep Sea Witch, Phantom Night Witch… Randomly flipping through show lineups from ten years ago, they were everywhere—’
‘But after that person appeared, everything changed.’
‘Not because she took the name “Witch”—but because she turned those two characters from an ordinary outfit anyone could wear into a royal robe that belonged only to her, one that no one else could ever fill.’
‘Anyone who shared the stage with her, regardless of their title, whether it had “Witch” in it or not—they all became the background.’
‘Not because she did it on purpose.
It was just that when she stood there, the light naturally went to her.’
‘Like when the sun comes out, the stars aren’t “extinguished”—they “disappear.”
No one could compete with her, because they weren’t even on the same level.’
‘After that, naturally, no one dared to use the title “Witch” anymore.
Not because the industry banned it—because no one wanted to be “that forgettable Witch.”
You could call yourself “Witch” anywhere, but the audience wouldn’t remember you.
Because when anyone mentioned “Witch,” everyone only thought of that one person.’
‘—The Witch of Calamity.’
Qiu Ya lowered her head and looked at her phone.
The screen had already gone dark, pitch black, reflecting her own face.
‘Witch of Calamity.
Lilith.’
‘And the person on stage tonight, the one who almost made Chuxue look like a supporting act—Alice, the Gemstone Princess. Her style, her aura, the way she stood on stage with that attitude of “I don’t need to compete, the light will naturally come to me”—’
‘It was too similar to Lilith back then. Not obvious, but far too similar.’
‘Gemstone Princess.’
‘Even the flood of “Princess” titles from just four months ago, along with “Queen,” proliferating to the point where no one took them seriously—now noticeably fewer people dared to take those names.’
‘Even this is the same…’
‘I guess that’s what you call coming from the same lineage.’
Qiu Ya let out a bitter laugh inwardly.
Her finger rested on the edge of the phone, unmoving.
‘”Witch”…
“Gemstone Princess,”
“Alice,”
“Lilith”—’
She murmured these three names under her breath, like reading the three conditions of a problem, trying to find the hidden connection between them.
“Aunt Qiu! Aunt Qiu! Aunt Qiu—!”
A voice exploded from beside her, yanking her out of her thoughts.
The three little ones had somehow already gathered around.
The black-haired one held up her phone, displaying a blurry stage photo where the light had smeared into a shapeless blob, like a flower that hadn’t bloomed properly.
“Aunt Qiu, look at this—don’t you think I captured it with such great vibes!”
Qiu Ya looked at that completely blurry photo for two seconds.
Then she laughed—not that faint, contemplative smile from before, but a real laugh, one that had been coaxed out of her.
“Yeah, great vibes. Can’t tell what it’s supposed to be at all.”
“Aunt Qiu—!”
The other two laughed along.
The brown-haired one leaned in and added, “She filmed for ten minutes, and this is the clearest one.”
The black-haired one’s face turned red as she shoved her phone into her pocket, muttering, “The lighting was bad, it’s not my fault.”
Qiu Ya watched them mess around.
Watching them, the heavy things from before—the confrontation and collaboration, the Witch and the Princess, the past and the present—were all scattered by the laughter of these children.
Like snow falling on warm stones, melting before it could even accumulate.
“Well, anyway—”
The three little ones stopped and looked at her.
She looked back, and slowly put those three names—Witch, Gemstone Princess, Alice, Lilith—back into a locked drawer in her heart, closed it, and stopped thinking about them.
At least for tonight, she didn’t need to think about these things.
“The performance—did you enjoy it?”
***
Meanwhile, on the other side.
The backstage corridor was very long, with harsh fluorescent tubes shining down from above, casting long shadows on the floor.
In the distance, someone was moving props.
The wheels squeaked and creaked, occasionally interspersed with a few lowered voices giving directions.
Farther away, there was the exit to the auditorium, from where a hubbub drifted over, muffled and indistinct, as if filtered through a layer of water.
Su Nian sat on a chair in the corner.
Her phone was still lit, the screen frozen on that moment after Alice and Chuxue’s encore had ended, during the curtain call—Chuxue holding Alice, the atmosphere on stage seeming very lively, the hems of their skirts not yet fully settled, with diamond chips and snow still drifting in the air.
The image was paused there, and she stared at it for a long time, so long that the screen dimmed automatically, then lit up again, then dimmed again.
She locked her phone and put it in her pocket.
The movement was very slow, as if afraid of waking something up.
She stood up.
The chair scraped against the floor with a very soft squeak.
She stood in front of the mirror.
In the mirror, she saw herself in a white knight costume, silver trim on the collar reflecting a dull light under the fluorescents, the cuffs pulled tight, the hem just covering the middle of her thighs.
Her ponytail was tied tightly, the hair tie wound around three times.
The last loop was a bit tight, making her scalp tingle slightly.
She looked at herself in the mirror, at those dark red eyes.
Her hands were trembling.
A very slight tremor, imperceptible unless you looked closely.
But she was looking, so she saw it.
She opened her mouth.
Wanted to say something.
Her throat moved, but no sound came out.
She opened her mouth again.
“…I can do this.”
Her voice was so small that it was almost drowned out by the creaking of the wheels in the corridor.
But she said it.
Xiao Xi stood beside her.
She heard it.
She nodded vigorously.
The movement was wide, her ponytail swinging with it, her eyes bright, her lips pressed together into a thin line.
She was cheering her on.
She didn’t say a word, but that nod—that quick, heavy nod that almost shook her head off—was louder than any words.
There was some commotion outside—the noise from the audience and the stage, staff doing final checks.
Someone was calling for lights, their voice coming intermittently from a walkie-talkie.
There were also footsteps, lots of footsteps, walking from the side stage to the backstage, then from the backstage back to the side stage.
Those sounds were far away and yet very close.
Far, like there was something between them; close, like they were right in her ears.
Every sound reminded her: it was coming soon.
She wasn’t afraid.
She just looked at that door, at the two words on it: “Stage.”
Then she sat down and closed her eyes.
Not to rest—to run through it all once more in her mind: where to enter on the first line, where to start the first move, where to look first.
An 800-person venue, she would stand right in the center, the lights would shine down, the audience would be dark, she wouldn’t be able to see anyone, but everyone would see her.
There wasn’t much time left, but there was still some.
Then her first performance, 800 people, and finally
—the closing act.